Retribution
by Sewnata
Summary: It's been a good twenty years since Moriarty committed suicide in Reichenbach Fall. But when Moriarty's ex-wife asks Sherlock to find her missing son, Jameson, will the discovery of her son have dangerous repercussions on Sherlock's family (and yes, he does have a family, he married Molly)? Please read, critique and review! :)
1. Chapter 1

Okay, this is my FIRST Sherlock fanfiction. I don't own anybody (darn it! I wish I did!). But enough with the usual disclaimers...hope you enjoy! :)

Chapter 1

Dong! Dong! The old cuckoo clock that Molly had insisted Sherlock put in the flat went off loudly, right in the detective's ear.

He groaned and rolled over, only to have Molly poking him in the ribs.

"Wake up, sleepyhead! I made breakfast!" She chirped, holding out a steaming tray resplendent with coffee, bacon and scrambled eggs. She tugged on her messy auburn braid.

Sherlock gave his wife a grateful smile. Mrs. Hudson had been right, marriage did change a person. For the better in his case. "Thanks." He murmured, taking a quick sip of coffee.

"Has John called with any new cases, or where you just pretending to sleep and checking your website on your phone under the covers?" Molly called from the kitchen, as she fixed a plate for herself.

Sherlock shoved his empty plate aside, slipped his feet into his slippers and shuffled into the kitchen to refill his cup. "Of course, why not? Anything to keep my mind off of shooting up the wall and raising the rent. Do you have any objections?"

Molly bit her lower lip. "Just as long as you get in a full night's sleep, Sherlock." She glanced up, as their sixteen year-old son, Ian shuffled into the room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Good morning Ian! Slept well?" She queried.

Ian shook his head. Unlike his younger sister Anthea, he was the spitting-image of his father. "Nothing to report. Slept as well as could be expected." He mumbled, smiling at his mother as he accepted the plate of food she was proffering.

He glanced at his dad's iPhone as it gave a resounding chirp, and glanced at his father curiously. "Is it Uncle John, again? I hope he has a case this time, dad."

Sherlock shook his head, as he headed towards his bedroom to dress. "And it wouldn't be too soon, either." He called out, closing the bedroom door behind him.

xxx

-Later that Morning-

Sherlock glanced at the battered door of 221B and heaved a deep sigh. Twenty years ago, there had still been a Mrs. Hudson and a Lestrade. But Lestrade had retired, and Mrs. Hudson had gone off to Italy for her retirement, since she'd fallen into a bit of a fortune later on.

"Middle-age, brother mine, comes to us all." Sherlock found himself remembering what his older brother had told him. He'd scoffed at it at the time, but since he had married Molly, everything had happened far too quickly.

Since both Sherlock and John had had to move, to accommodate their growing families, they had both moved out of 221B. But Mrs. Hudson had given Sherlock the deed when she left for Italy, telling him to take good care of it, and not shoot up her walls. Sherlock was grateful for that, and tried to show it, although he still wasn't used to doing that sort of thing.

"Sherlock!" John's voice called excitedly as he opened the door, he scanned his best friend. It had been a few months, since they had seen each other. Sherlock hadn't been busy, and the new Inspector, Inspector Chavender was nothing like what Lestrade had been. But John decided that he didn't look any worse for wear.

Sherlock gave his friend the usual cold smile. "I heard you found a case? I was checking the website half the night, trying to keep myself from running over to Bart's morgue again. That new Pathologist there is hardly agreeable. Been camping?"

John blinked a moment, before realizing that his friend was deducing. "Oh, uh yeah. With the kids you know." He cleared his throat before continuing. "Ms. Moran is the client. Seems that she's having some problems with her son…she wasn't quite clear on it over the phone."

Sherlock settled himself into his usual pose in his armchair, and steepled his fingers together. "Well, we'll just have to see, John. I haven't told Molly this, but London is slowly becoming more boring than it used to be twenty years ago. This Ms. Moran might make a welcome change." He paused as the doorbell buzzed. "And that would be her, if I'm any judge. Let her in, will you?"

John gave his friend a relieved smile. Ever since Sherlock had married Molly, he had changed. It was nice to have the real Sherlock Holmes back again.

He glanced at the middle-aged woman with the care-worn face. Her trusting, chocolate brown eyes went shiny as she recognized John's face. "Ms. Moran?" John asked shortly. "Sherlock will see you now…"

She hurried past him, and into the living room, gasping at the plainness of it. "M-Mr. Holmes?" She mumbled, turning nervously towards the detective. "I heard that you could help me with my problem."

Sherlock cracked one eye open. "Middle-aged, wears Clair-de-lune, has a missing son who has been gone about two days." He muttered, as he sniffed the air. "Boring!" He announced, rising from his chair, and sitting down before his desk, typing furiously on his laptop.

Ms. Moran held in the feeling of wanting to scream in frustration and tried to make herself look more pleading. "But Mr. Holmes, you haven't even been listening to me! My son has been acting extremely strangely, and I'm afraid that someone might have been stalking him. I came to you because Scotland Yard thought that I was mad. Jamie hasn't been a very open boy, since his father and I…well, since his father isn't around anymore. I'm so worried about my baby. He's the only thing I've got in this whole world; you have to help me!" She pleaded, wiping the tears out of her eyes before anyone could notice.

Sherlock gave a deep sigh. He hated dealing with grieving mothers. He stood up resolutely and moved towards the door, pulling his coat onto his slim figure. "Fine. John, come with me, the game is on!"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sherlock glanced down at his shrilly beeping phone, as a picture of his wife's face appeared beside the number. He knew better than to ignore it.

He stopped running, just as John almost collided with him. "Yes, Molly?" He asked patiently.

Molly gave a dry cough before stating her business. Her voice sounded odd over the speaker phone, but Sherlock generally forgot to turn it off for calling clients. "FYI, your son is trying to find you. I was only able to get in contact with him just now, he must be in the dirtier part of the city. I guess there was bad connection." She explained. "Could you pick him up? I think he'd enjoy a day out on a case."

Sherlock gave a resounding sigh, before smiling and replacing the phone by his ear. "Alright, we'll pick him up. I hope that he knows that he might have to use his karate, might be a big help. The same on brains as on brawn, I suppose. I'll call you later, Molly. Bye." He gave a kissing noise into his phone, before hanging up.

"Well?" John asked expectantly, as he dusted off the knees of his trousers. A near collision with his best friend had sent him falling flat.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Ian's gone missing again. I'm afraid that my son has a strange obsession with trying to fit into my shoes. Although, I suppose that that is something that I have never quiet understood. I tried to train him at an early age, with excellent success. I just hope that this brilliancy continues throughout the Holmes line."

John shook his head. He wasn't surprised that Ian would want to fill in his father's shoes. "And?" he hated being reduced to one syllable words.

"We'll pick him up, and then follow this lead. I'm sure that Ms. Moran can wait…" He paused, as his son rounded the corner. "Ian Lucas Holmes, what are you doing worrying your mother?" He lectured, trying his best not to smile.

Ian gave his father a cold contortion of his own. "Looking for Ms. Moran's son, hmmm? Let me just say that I don't think that her son is being stalked, I think he went off on his own, on purpose."

Sherlock knew he couldn't keep being angry with his son, especially when he was willing to play deductions. "Idea, might as well follow it. Better than waiting around here…" He glanced down as his phone began ringing loudly. "Hello, this is Sherlock Holmes." He muttered in a business like tone.

"H-h-hello, idiot." His daughter's voice cracked over the line. Sherlock could tell she was holding in tears.

"Anthea?" He stuttered in response. His daughter was generally sweet tempered and respectful.

"No, my name isn't Anthea, Sherlock. I'm just using her to get in touch. You have five hours to solve my puzzles, or (as my father used to say) 'I'm going to be sooooooo naughty.'"

Sherlock dropped the phone as his daughter hung up, a strange look in his eyes. He hardly glanced at the picture, sent with the message. He turned to John. "Moriarty has my daughter…." He menaced.

John sighed. "No, he can't, because Moriarty's dead!"

Sherlock nodded, before running up an alley way, glancing at the screen of his phone from time to time, trying to remember the bombings that Moriarty had originally cursed the city with.

Then he received a text that stopped him short. Inspector Chavender had decided to get in contact with him for once. Three words, plain and simple. Murder. Freddie Grey.

He gave his two companions a small smile. "It's Christmas-time." He murmured, holding out the picture on his phone, so John could see. "He was found by the Thames, no-one's touched the body, so that should give us ample time…" He paused, as a picture of his daughter's frightened face forced its way to the front of his mind. "Ample time to solve this dratted case before Moriarty tries anything. Let's head out, Anthea's life depends on it." He commanded calmly.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"He did what?!" Molly shouted at her husband, chewing frantically on the end of her braid. She stared at the IPhone screen in disbelief, a few tears trickling down her cheek. Face time was the best way to get in contact with him these days.

Sherlock bit his lower lip, as he stared out the window of the cab. He hated it when Molly went off on one of her tangents. "I told you, Anthea got kidnapped. I've seen this sort of thing before, you remember Moriarty don't you?" He asked impatiently.

Molly gave a shuddering breath and closed her eyes. "So that's why she didn't come home from school. B-but you could have told me something earlier, how long have you been on the case, two hours?!" She yelled, shoving the desk drawer closed.

Sherlock squinted at his wife's angry face, and smiled nervously at his companions. "Yeah, but listen! You don't seem to understand! Moriarty's son, Jameson has just taken up his father's career, trying to get rid of me. He's trying to take care of me through my family."

Molly glared at the screen. "All I want is our daughter back. I don't care who it is that kidnapped her, I just want her back safely. Get _that_ through your consulting brain!" She huffed, pressing the hang-up button resolutely.

"That didn't sound too promising." Ian joked dryly. It was the only way to cope with his sister's disappearance, although he enjoyed the game being on as much as his father did.

Sherlock turned on his son distraughtly. Inspector Chavender had been very little help, and he felt fed up with ordinary people's "boring little brains." "SHUT UP! Can everybody just S-H-U-T U-P! I'm trying to go into my Mind Palace! Your sister's life depends on it, and I'd like just a _little_ peace and quiet!"

Ian shoved himself into the farthest corner of the cab, with his arms folded. He steepled his fingers and closed his eyes in a mock comparison of his father.

John patted him on shoulder comfortingly. "Don't worry, Ian. He'll let you help one of these days."

Ian merely squeezed himself into a tinier ball, and tried to ignore the older man. Finally, he cracked one eye open. "Yeah, when pigs fly. He's always going into his "Mind Palace" and running around as if he knows everything! I can't understand how mum was attracted to him in the first place…"

John gazed at his god-son concernedly. "I don't think you're judging your father fairly. He may have been selfish in the past, but he's changed since he married your mother. He's more qualified to be your father than you know. But at the moment, you're sounding exactly your father used to sound as a bachelor!" He joked.

Ian shrugged. "I guess so. I didn't know him then, of course. I guess I'm just a little jealous of his skills, that's all. I want to prove myself to him, more than Anthea ever did. And she has more of the qualifications than I do. But, that's to be expected….her having mum's skill set too." He murmured bitterly. He glanced up, as he felt his father turn his piercing gaze on him.

"I'm sorry, Ian. I've never really begged for mercy, but I'm afraid that I haven't been very fair to you. I'll teach you along the way." Sherlock promised, giving his son a patient smile before returning to his Mind Palace.

"Uh huh." Ian returned thoughtfully. His thoughts were already far away, trying to come up with a P.O.A. If his sister's life depended on them finding her, perhaps he could have a cool head, unlike his father's behavior at the moment.


	4. Chapter 4

**Just a quick note: I did do my research on this chapter!**

Chapter 4

Sherlock glanced down at the pale corpse with disgust. He'd seen enough murders in the past to be used to it. But he still felt a certain…distance.

He glanced up at the new Pathologist at Bart's Morgue, Mr. Eovaldi. But of course, he wasn't as agreeable as Molly had been in the past. Unfortunately, Inspector Chavender had decided to show up, just to make sure that the three sleuths stayed out of mischief.

"You can't be serious, Mr. Holmes! James Moriarty has been dead for the last eighteen years! How could you possibly think that he still lives on! How could he have even influenced his son?! It just doesn't make sense!" Chavender was turning beat red, while the older detective, (who he still considered an amateur) continued to look unruffled.

"I have every reason to believe that that is true inspector! Now, LET ME ALONE SO I CAN SOLVE THIS CASE!" Sherlock shouted, jamming his fist against the wall. "STUPID IDIOT!"

Inspector Chavender gave his respects to John and turned to leave, muttering under his breath.

"You really shouldn't yell at Scotland Yard like that, it…." John paused in his admonishments to stare at his best friend, who was sitting seiza on the morgue's floor, hugging himself and gritting his teeth, hissing like a cat.

"Dad, are you okay?" Ian knelt down beside his father, and gave him an awkward pat.

Sherlock quickly wiped the tears off of his cheeks, and gestured weakly towards the newspaper he had let fall onto the floor. "Y-your sister. She's in the news, just like she always wanted…" He swallowed with difficulty, talking more to himself than to his companions as he collapsed to the floor, tears again tracing down his cheeks. He pressed lightly on his arms, and winced.

But he still grabbed for his cell phone as it rang, loudly in his ears. He blinked, as he lost his sight for a few moments. "Y-yes? Don't worry, Anthea, I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't worry, I…." He paused as the breath caught in his throat, the phone still crushed to his ear as he lay limp on the floor.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I'm so changeable! Guess your precious little daughter will just have to die, killing others in her wake. And you, enjoy your Hemlock coffee! I couldn't resist spicing things up. Hope John enjoys clearing out your system! Bye!" His daughter said with forced enthusiasm, even though she was unsure of what most of the words meant. But she broke down at the fact that she would be the first to die.

"Sherlock!" John grabbed hold of his friend's arm, feeling his neck for a pulse. It was rapid, but feeble. "Sherlock, CAN YOU HEAR ME!" He shouted in the detective's ear, watching frantically as Sherlock's eyes instantly dilated, his breathing becoming raspy. He'd warned his friend about regular eating habits, and it seemed that that habit had caught up with him. And then he remembered. The symptoms….hemlock poisoning.

He glanced at Ian, who was staring at the goings on, a bit insensitively. "Ian, call Eovaldi back from those tests. We have to get your dad to Intensive Care, now!" John barked, trying to blink back the tears in his voice.

Ian merely nodded, and soon brought back the required help, watching as his paralyzed parent was rolled into Intensive Care on a gurney. It was only then, that he let a few tears slip, but only when John wasn't looking.

John ran his fingers through his hair, as he marched after the gurney. _Now, the hard part._ He thought as he pulled out his phone. _Telling Molly._


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Molly grabbed hold of a nurse's sleeve, trying to wipe away the tears that were forming. "P-please….have you seen my husband?" She murmured pitifully, hating herself instantly for sounding that way. "The-the name is Holmes." She whispered, patting her quickly dripping nose with a bunch of Kleenex she'd stowed away in her pockets.

Then nurse eyed her dubiously. "You're sure you want to go in there, love? They're having quite a bit trouble with the patient. Paralysis, you know. Tannic acid, Castor oil and mustard generally works. I'm afraid they're having to use an artificial respirator for the time being. But he should be right as rain in a couple of days, you'll see." The woman offered Molly another Kleenex, and a sympathetic pat on the back. "But if you're so set on seeing your man, he's in room 208, in Intensive Care. Now, off you go, dearie!"

Molly nodded slowly, her eyes brimming with tears as she stepped into the elevator. Giving the nurse at the front desk one more grateful glance.

xxx

-At room 208-

Molly glanced in through the little glass window, and covered her mouth with her hand. She'd seen her husband in worse condition before, but he looked a little worse for wear. Finally, she opened the door, and pushed her way though, nodding respectfully at the doctors and nurses as she sat down in a vacant chair.

"You got here okay, Molly?" One of the doctor's asked, drawing down his mask to show that it was John. "Everything's just winding down….are you okay?" He stared at her concernedly.

Molly shook her head, as she gestured towards the bed. "I-I-is he gonna be okay? I-I just need one more miracle….you know." She stuttered, rising from her chair and moving towards the bed. She gasped, as she glanced at her husband. He was pale, and shivering noticeably. She grabbed hold of one of his hands, and wouldn't let go, despite the fact that some of the nurses tried to move her.

John shook his head at his companions, and smiled warmly at Molly. "He'll be just fine. Unfortunately, I received a call from Moriarty. He's willing to let Anthea go….only if I…if I take care of Sherlock. He told me to put morphine in his IV or something. I-I'm not even sure what to do…" He glanced at his best friend's face, as the nurse slipped some coffee and stimulants into the feeding tube.

Molly stared at her husband, and glanced at the picture of her daughter stowed in her wallet. "I-I'm not sure either. B-both? He really said that?" She asked, wonderingly.

John nodded grimly. "I wish that I could say differently, Molly. I'm afraid that you and Ian should stay at 221B, just to be sure. I'll remain here, and see if I can't think up something. And call Mycroft. Perhaps he'll have an answer."

Molly gave a weak smile, but shook her head at John's suggestion. "Sorry, but a wife's place is with her husband. Ian and I will stay here, and help you consult with Mycroft."

John squinted as he dialed Mycroft's number. "Okay. Just, just be a bit of my moral support."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Mycroft gave a simpering smile, as he listened to John's plight. He should have realized that his younger sibling couldn't stay out of trouble for long. "It's quiet obvious John. In plain sight. Merely invite Moriarty to skype or Face-time with you, and give my baby brother a drug that makes him appear dead! I'm amazed that you didn't think of Cantarella, the drug that made Juliet "sleep as death". As a doctor, I thought that you would have remembered that!"

John sighed, and switched his phone from his left ear to his right. "Naloxone Pentazocine would be my first choice. Slows the heart rate to almost nothing, although it would invoke hallucinations and light-headedness. But those are well worth it side-effects. Anything I forgot?"

Mycroft eyed the screen listlessly. "Yes, you forgot about my brother's drug addiction. Quite possibly, he might take on this Naloxone Pentazocine as something to take when he's "bored". Just…keep a close eye on him, just to make certain. I don't want a second funeral on my hands." He muttered, with very little emotion.

John nodded stiffly. "Don't worry, I'll keep a close eye on him. Fortunately, I think that he's already stable enough to do this sort of thing. I'll call you later, bye." He turned to Molly, who was stroking her husband's forehead nervously.

"I'm going to get in touch with Moriarty, and invite him to skype with us. We'll try to make this fast, okay? You alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine." She quickly blinked the tears out of her eyes, and grabbed hold of her son Ian, hugging him hard.

-Later, Skyping with Moriarty-

John gazed at the small bottle lying on the table, and bit his lower lip, dubiously. He still wasn't sure that he could do this. Not to his best friend.

He glanced up, as his phone rang, revealing that Skype was working just fine. He grabbed hold, and hit the call button. "Hello? This is John Watson, how may I help you?" he asked in his usual, business-like manner.

The person on the other end, who chose to dress in a leering mask, gave a low chuckle. "I told you what my terms are, John. Did you finally talk yourself into it? No, don't answer that. Are you ready?"

John nodded slowly, as he held the bottle up for Moriarty to see. "Naloxone Pentazocine. Any overdoses will either kill immediately, or soon will kill him. I'll crush these tablet and mix them, then inject. He'll be in dream-land soon afterwards." John paused for affect, then gave a deep sigh. "Have any questions?" He asked dis-spiritedly.

Moriarty's masked face gave a small shake. "No, no, no, I don't John. You can continue with the procedure. Unless of course, you want me to come over and do it myself."

John grabbed hold of the needle, and poured the already crushed tablets into it, mixing it quickly with water. He glanced at his friend, who only blinked in return. It had already taken so much to get him conscious, that John still wasn't sure he wanted to do it.

But, Sherlock had agreed to the plan. He trusted him.

With a deep sigh, John pressed the needle into Sherlock's arm, wincing slightly as he injected the drug into Sherlock's veins. He held his breath.

Sherlock's eyes widened, as he found himself unable to move. "J-John, what have you done?" He mouthed, just as his eyes started to close. A small groan escaped his lips, and he went into convulsions.

John watched the effects of the drug, placing the offending needle back onto the tray, his hands shaking. "I-I'm sorry Sherlock. I had no choice." He tried to apologize as best he could, laying a latex-gloved hand on his friend's arm.

"Now….the death certificate, if you don't mind Mrs. Holmes? You needn't be shy about it. From the looks of things, I think that your husband will end up in the morgue in just a few hours. How's his heart rate, John?" Moriarty mocked, eyeing Molly evilly.

John handed her the paper and a pen, with tears in his eyes. "Everything's going to be okay, Molly. Just….sign it." He whispered in her ear calmly.

Molly nodded slowly, letting her pen caress the paper and holding it up for Moriarty to inspect. She wiped away the tears with the corner of her old lab coat. "That enough evidence for you?" She murmured bitterly.

Sherlock gave one last convulsion, before laying still, his breath stopping. John grabbed hold of his friend's wrist to feel for a pulse. There wasn't one. Already, Sherlock was looking more dead than alive. Pale and still.

Moriarty gave a cruel smile as he watched the looks of despair on the other's faces. "Well, now that I know what the outcome is…I'll tell Perkins to send Anthea to St. Bart's. And don't you fret, John. You made the right decision. Over and out." And the screen went blank.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

As soon as Moriarty took his leave, Molly grabbed her husband's arm, burying her face in his shoulder and letting out soft muffled sobs in relief.

John slowly peeled her off, in order to better examine his best friend. "I'm going to call Mary, to see if she can come over. She'll keep you occupied for a while, and I'll try to help Sherlock. Don't worry, I know what I'm doing." He forced Molly to sit in a chair, then turned back to his patient.

Sherlock was still as pale, and limp looking as he had looked previously. John closed his eyes, and uttered a quick prayer. "Please, just one more miracle." He whispered, before giving his instructions over the hospital intercom.

Molly looked away, as the nurses and doctor's filed in, in incredibly orderly lines. She quickly scooted her chair closer, in order to clutch one of her spouse's hands.

"I-I'm still here." She breathed, ignoring her son's hand on her shoulder.

Ian stared at the scene a moment, blinked and then turned into the hallway. He didn't want anyone to see him shed tears of relief. After-all, he had his father's pride.

-After the procedure-

Sherlock opened his eyes, and did a double-take. The hospital room swayed before him abnormally as he tried desperately to identify the little that he could.

"Sherlock?" John queried hopefully, searching his friend's face.

Sherlock turned his head in the direction of the noise, and tried to suck in the feeling of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. But instead of John, he saw Moriarty sitting by his bed-side, looking concerned and disappointed.

"Who let you in here?" Sherlock asked calmly, de-spite the fact that he felt horribly vulnerable.

John sighed. "I'm your best friend, don't you think that I should be concerned about your well-being?"

"Well-being?" Sherlock seemed confused. He didn't like it one bit. "And you're not my friend, either! I don't have friends, just one. I suppose you've come to take Anthea back?"

Now it was John's turn to be confused. He glanced down at the toes of his shoes, before laying a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I've always been your friend."

Sherlock recoiled at the touch. "Don't. I can be sickened quiet easily. If you didn't come for Anthea, who did you come for then? Me, quiet likely. You're disappointed because I didn't die like you asked."

John groaned as Sherlock raised himself from bed, the flimsy hospital gown making him look ridiculous. He clutched at John's shoulder's, shaking him roughly. "I-I didn't ask you to die! I prayed for a miracle!" He exclaimed.

"You're trying to confuse me. Be aware, that it won't work. Besides, I'm leaving. If you want to find me, you'll know how to get in contact." Sherlock menaced, shoving John into a chair and striding out of the room, sprinting down the sterile hallway.

John tore open the door, and chased after his best friend, calling out his name several times, telling him to stop. "Sherlock, this isn't funny! Stop!"

Sherlock didn't even look back. He kept on, until he was apprehended by two orderlies who had heard the commotion. Unfortunately for him, they were stronger than he was.

He pointed a shaking finger towards John, letting a look of pure terror etch itself onto his face. "It's your fault. Just remember that. Moriarty." He slurred, closing his eyes.

John watched the orderlies drag Sherlock back to his room, and heaved a deep sigh. He had expected something like this. Hallucinations weren't one of the more common side-effects, but with the dose that he had given Sherlock, it might very well be unavoidable.

He was just glad that Molly hadn't been there to see that episode. He had persuaded her to buy some flowers and a get well gift, even though he knew that Sherlock usually didn't appreciate a fuss being made.

He just hoped that Sherlock would be in a condition for visiting, after this.

"John!"

He glanced up, as he spotted his wife hurrying down the corridor, and heaved a sigh of relief.

"Mary, I-I…" He stuttered, grabbing hold of her and hugging her to him.

Mary smiled appreciatingly, before wiggling herself out of his embrace. "John, what's wrong? Has Sherlock been difficult? I stopped at the market, I thought Molly might need a few things…sorry if I didn't respond to your, plea for help instantly." She apologized.

John merely shrugged. "Don't worry, I'm fine. You do get a bit of a jolt when your best friend thinks that you are his nemesis. Other than that, no, everything's fine." He stated bitterly.

Mary gave him an extra squeeze for good luck. "I'm sorry, John. I'm here to be Molly's rock, and yours too, if you'll let me. I _know_ that you can help heal your friend."

John smiled. "Molly's downstairs getting a get-well card. I guess I'm saving her eye-sight by sending her. She was crying her eyes out all night during the procedure. I understand how she feels. I-I was just getting back to Sherlock…"

Mary nodded. "Go on, Dr. Watson. I'll find Molly. And don't worry, I'll keep her mind off of the tragedy." She promised.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Molly slipped into her husband's room, the card and the bouquet of the flowers pinched between her arm and elbow. She gasped, as she saw her daughter slumping beside the bed, tears trailing down her cheeks.

"Anthea! Anthea, are you alright, honey?" She exclaimed, dropping her armful of gifts.

Anthea gave her mother a sad smile. "Uncle John said that he had to give dad a drug overdose, intentionally. By the way, where is Uncle John?"

"That's the question _I_ was about to ask!" A voice penetrated the touching scene, cutting it like a knife.

Molly turned, to see Inspector Chavender leaning against the wall, adjusting his coat sleeve fussily. "Oh, Inspector! Are you looking for John?" She asked, hugging her daughter to her.

John smiled at the group, giving Chavender an apologetic look and giving his hand a quick shake. "Sorry, I kept you waiting Inspector. Is there anything I can do for you?" He asked.

The Inspector heaved a deep sigh, as he brought out a gleaming pair of hand-cuffs and snapped them onto John's wrists. "I'm sorry that I have to do this John, but I have to put you under arrest. Duty is stronger than friendship. Although personally, I certainly wish that I could set you free."

John gave the Inspector a distraught look. "For what crime, exactly?"

Chavender held his phone out for everyone to see, opening up a video and pressing play. Instantly, a vivid picture of John explaining the effects of a drug, and giving his best friend an overdose of it appeared on the screen.

"So you see, John, I just can't let you go. That would be like letting a murderer escape. You understand?" Now it was Inspector Chavender's turn to be apologetic.

John nodded slowly, his eyes dilating as he fully realized what was happening.

Molly drew herself up to her full height, and glared at the Inspector. "I'll have you know, that he was trying to save my daughter's life! It was choice, between my husband, and Anthea. And you haven't noticed that John intended on bringing him back!" She spat.

Chavender eyed her coldly. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Holmes but it's my duty to arrest any persons who has attempted murder….and that is what Dr. Watson has committed. You can see the facts in moving color right here." He stated, as he pulled John out of his chair, and started dragging him down the hall-way.

John didn't fight it. He merely glanced behind at Mary's astonished face as she returned from the restroom. "Sorry!" He yelled, as Chavender pushed him into an elevator. "Call Greg!"

XXX

Mary rushed into the hospital room, her eyes wide with astonishment. "Why did the Inspector take John!?"

Molly gazed calmly at her friend, laying a finger over her own lips to signify silence. "Sherlock's sleeping." She whispered, brushing Sherlock's hair out his eyes. He mumbled in his sleep, and squirmed in bed fitfully.

Mary lowered her voice, and repeated her question impatiently.

Molly shook her head. "Don't worry, I already phoned Greg and he's on his way over to Scotland Yard. He'll be able to get him out. Somehow, Chavender got hold of that Skype video. He thinks that John was intentionally trying to _kill_ my husband." She replied shortly. "Now all we have to do is wait…"

xxx

Greg swung himself out of the car and heaved a deep sigh. This hadn't been the first time that Sherlock had gotten himself into a bit of trouble. But the fact that John had was wedged into the problem deeper than he needed to be, irritated Lestrade the most.

He glanced down at his phone, as it rang loudly in his ear. "Hello, this is Mr. Lestrade, how may I help you?" He stiffened as he listened to his wife's frightened voice. "Helen, are you alright?"

"Listen, Greg, I don't think you w-want to bail John o-out. Or I'll blow a whole block to kingdom come. Just, consider it." Helen stuttered nervously, as the line went dead.

Greg glanced up at Scotland Yard HQ longingly, as he sent Molly a quick text.

 _Coming at once to St. Bart's. Have a problem with more bombs. See you there-Greg_


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Greg poked his head in through the door of room 208, to find the room almost empty. "Hey, Sherlock are you in?" He called, closing the door behind him.

"Ah, Lestrade. Back from retirement I see. It's done you good, you've stopped smoking." A voice called weakly from one corner of the room.

Greg smiled at the thin form lounging in the hospital bed, it had been a while since he had seen Sherlock, and he was wasn't surprised that their next meeting was under such circumstances. But he was still shocked by the look on his friend's face.

"I just got back from trying to get John out of custody. But are you alright, Sherlock? What have they been feeding you?" He asked, sitting down in the bedside chair.

Sherlock shrugged, pulling in a deep, shaking breath. "Do I look like I've been eating? The food is disgusting…but Molly insisted that I eat something. So she left me here, while she went to make something at home….Ian and Anthea went with her. She-she wouldn't let me go after John….said it was too much of a risk…." He leaned forward, the nausea finally hitting his stomach. He dry heaved for a few moments.

"Please tell me your mind is as sharp as it used to be. My wife has just been abducted by that mad bomber, you remember the one? With the orange pips? He threatened to kill her, unless I didn't get John out of Scotland Yard." Greg patted one of Sherlock's shaking shoulders comfortingly.

Sherlock started violently. "I'm going to the roof. He's been hiding under my nose this entire time…" He muttered instinctively, trying to rise from bed.

But Greg only pushed him back into it, and chuckled nervously. "Listen, Sherlock, I just need you to use your powers of deduction to get my wife back. Have you received any text messages, lately?"

Sherlock nodded, and held out his phone, scanning through the recent images until he came upon the picture of a tall, blonde girl. "Abigail Bartley, a used to be nurse here at St. Bart's was murdered. Although there is no evidence of any wounds, or poisoning, I am inclined to believe that Miss Bartley was murdered with some sort of lethal gas. It would be quiet easy to finish someone off in that event, especially if she was stuck in a smaller space, say an elevator or a broom closet." He stated matter-of-factly, leaning back against the pillows with his arms crossed.

"But the murderer?"

Sherlock scowled. "Even more obvious. She was engaged to a Mr. Jameson Moran…" Sherlock paused thoughtfully, his eyes gleaming. "Who is the one who kidnapped your wife…Apparently, Mr. Moran has a strange sense of humor, or he wanted revenge after she broke off they're engagement.. Although he lived with his mother recently, he left her for 'greener pastures.' He's obviously disappointed with life, and how it's ticking at the moment…just like his father, whom we both knew." He finished.

Greg's jaw dropped at this display of mental prowess. "Y-you mean, Moriarty? All the pieces seem to fit….it's been 20 long years after all. But who would marry a man like that?" He wondered.

Sherlock gave a terse smile. "Doubtless someone who fell in love on first sight. Even if Jim (rest his soul) _did_ fall in love, I highly doubt that he would tell the truth about his backstory….and the web that he controls." He eyed his friend. "Don't worry Greg, I'll get your wife out of this. Jameson might be like his father, but I'm sure he has a pressure point. And that's what I'm looking for…." He paused, as Greg's phone started playing maracas.

"You're at St. Bart's aren't you? I knew that John had faked Sherlock's demise….really smart that. Send Sherlock to the roof. We have some unfinished business that should have been taken care of twenty years ago." Ellen's voice murmured sadly.

Greg lowered the phone from his ear, and stared at the toes of his shoes. He glanced up at Sherlock reluctantly. "He says to come to the roof. Now Sherlock, don't….just don't die okay?"

Sherlock nodded slightly, as he rose from the hospital bed and grabbed at his clean clothes that were draped over a chair. "Don't worry. I always come back." He replied comfortingly.

 **Just a quick note!- Sorry I didn't have Greg in here before now...but since he was retired, I didn't think about it! And thank you C.D. Wofford for your ideas on the subject!**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Jameson Moran Moriarty gazed at his young charge with a certain contempt. "You had to decide to look like your father, didn't you?" He commented, watching with glee as Ian's jaw tensed violently.

"My parent's decided that, not me. What d'you want with dad, anyway? Revenge?" Ian asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Jameson smiled. "Sure…kid." He said softly, ruffling Ian's hair. "Did you know, that your dad was supposed to be dead, eighteen years ago? My dad, (rest his soul) blew his brains out to force yours to jump…off of the roof of this very building. Now, I'm just doing what my dad always dreamed. But I have no quarrel with you and your family. Once Sherlock dies, _you_ can leave."

Ian flinched inwardly at Jameson's monologue, looking up from the toes of his shoes to see his father dragging himself out of the elevator, a look of rage in his eyes.

"Ah…Sherl! You _were_ just a little late this time, weren't you? And just in time to save your son from blowing up the building! You didn't think your time would come, did you?" Jameson mocked, watching Sherlock's anger flare at the statement.

"You have me…let him go! He has no part in this…just leave my family alone!" Sherlock grabbed hold of his son's hand, and pushed him into the elevator. "Stay." He ordered, closing the doors in Ian's face.

"Don't worry, Sherl. I didn't care about your stupid off-spring anyway…sooooo boring! You, on the other hand, are something else. It's your turn, Mr. Holmes to pay your dues." Jameson reminded, sternly pushing his adversary closer to the edge of the building. He shrugged apologetically. "This is just what my father wanted…and he'll get to see it, from his window in hell."

Sherlock flipped up his coat collar, as he stepped onto the lip of the roof. His whole body tensed, ready for the fall. He glanced at his phone, ready to dial Mycroft's number.

Moriarty grinned evilly. "Oh, don't try texting your brother, Sherlock. He's under constant surveillance from my men. Any text from you, and he gets it. You savvy?"

Sherlock nodded comprehendingly, dialing John's number instead. "Just…let me talk to John….please." He pleaded, biting his lower lip in order to hide his emotions. "H-hello, John? Yes, it's me. This is my note….that's what people leave, isn't it? A note? Tell Molly to remember that she was loved by me, that she's made my life a very happy one and that there's no tragedy in that. I…I'm sorry, for all the pain I've caused you all." Sherlock quickly hung up, in order to stop John's confused babbling. He dropped his phone over the edge, and watched it crash to the concrete.

"You ready, Sherl? I mean, you know you can't take forever." Moriarty prodded, tapping Sherlock's shoulder impatiently with the barrel of his revolver. "I'm going to take my own life once this is all over. My father died up here, and I will too."

Sherlock shook his head, and stepped into the air, readying himself for the pain of hitting the pavement. "Dear God…into your hands I commend my spirit." He prayed anxiously, closing his eyes as the concrete met his head. Darkness enveloped him instantly.

 **Sorry, that I had to do this...but it was kind of necessary...:(**


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

John's mouth formed a round 'O' of surprise, as he spotted the growing crowd at the end of the street. "W-what's happened?" He asked one of the passersby.

The young woman bobbed her head sadly. "They just found someone lying in the street…a suicide the nurses said. I think they're taking him into St. Bart's to see if they can bring him around."

"Ta." John muttered, pushing through the crowd, shoving people aside roughly. "Excuse me, let me through, I'm a doctor." John pleaded, closing his eyes as he saw his best friend lying on the ground, the side of his head bleeding profusely. "Oh…Sherlock. Why?"

He turned to one of the nurses who had been bending over Sherlock's limp form. "Don't worry, I'll take over…just get a gurney…" He glanced up as he spotted Greg in the background. "Thanks for getting me out of that hell-hole. I just don't understand what-what could have happened? Sherlock was stable the last time I saw him…" John coughed, as a lump formed in his throat.

Greg nodded soberly, and laid a hand on John's shoulder. "Don't worry, John. Everything's going to be okay. Sherlock must have had a reason for this, I doubt he'd let himself go like that." Greg reminded.

John nodded, as he slowly loaded his friend onto the gurney for the second time that day. He glanced up as he heard hysterical crying behind him. He didn't even turn around. Tears, were something he could afford to shed on a later date.

xxx

Sherlock flinched, as someone shone a pen-light into his eyes. He squirmed uncomfortably, and gasped at the pain in his rib-cage.

"Whoever is doing that, just STOP IT!" He commanded, ending with a rough cough.

"Sherlock…calm down." John muttered, relieved that his friend was still alive and kicking. "You just survived a 60+ foot fall from St. Bart's, you know that."

Sherlock groaned. "Yes. And I've broken some ribs, and possibly my collar bone, along with my shin bones. Really, Sherlock you could have been a little more optimistic." He chided himself sarcastically.

John chuckled, and grinned as he noticed his friend opening his eyes. But still, the question of why his friend had jumped at all, was prodding him. He stared at the toes of his shoes, and shifted uncomfortably. "Why did you do it?" He asked.

Sherlock shook his head, and winced. "Do what? You mean, take a high dive off of the roof of St. Bart's? For pleasure, John. For pure pleasure." He responded cryptically.

"D'you want an overview of your condition or not? No don't answer that, you need it anyway. It'll bring you back to reality." John snapped. He was in no mood for Sherlock's puzzles. "You were right about the broken collar bone and shins, but I'm afraid that you also have a bit of a collapsed lung, so don't be surprised if it's hard to breath for a while."

Sherlock snuggled into the pillow behind his head, and closed his eyes. "Yes…quiet obvious…and boring. How's Molly?" He said, trying to change the subject.

John rolled his eyes, "Worried sick. Just lie still, and you'll be fine. I'll let Molly and everyone else in, after we get you patched up." He heaved a deep sigh, as he glanced at his friend. That had been a near miss, and he certainly didn't want to have to go through with that again.


End file.
